A Day in the Life of
by lilykane
Summary: Some wounds take longer to heal, as a twelve year old Billy Lee Black finds.


_~Disclaimer: All characters in this story belong to Squaresoft. This was written for entertainment purposes only, and any offense taken, I apologize.~_   
  
  
**A Day in the Life of**

The only noise that he could hear was the soft breeze whispering through the opened window that lit up the little bedroom. It was almost the end of the day, as the sun's hard rays had softened into evening light, and the rich autumn light poured into the room, making the white walls glow golden. He closed his eyes and let out a deep breath. Just a little while longer, he would wait, and soak in the vision, however he opened his eyes to the darkening room. 

The white sheets of the little bad in the room mussed up, as usual, but still clean tonight, and on the bed, the person he had came to see sat quietly. 

That little boy... he looked so much like his mother in the face, with his perfect porcelain skin and pursed cherry lips. The lad sat perfectly still, his legs crossed and his hands resting on top of his knees, carefully covering up his pale, nude body. The boy stared up from beneath his shaggy silver hair, jaded, at the older man, waiting for what was next. 

*****

There was something genuine about Billy. He wasn't like other boys that sat in the pews. Those fidgety, uncomfortable looking priests in training, most tugging at the little white robes that they wore. Some wore those "do I have to?" faces as they marched up and down the aisles, holding their long, slender candle-snuffers. Not a one of those boys were there because they wanted to, forced by parents that wanted their sons to become good men in a world that was falling apart. Not a one of them, but Billy. 

The thin, pale boy looked almost ghostly in his robes, his face devoid of any emotion. He was always silent, and today was no different as he sat waiting for instructions, though he already knew the routine for Sunday mass. 

Everything was tidy about him. His thick, pewter hair was perfectly in place, though it hung in his icy blue eyes. On his lap, his small, feminine hands rested, folded carefully on top of one another. And his gaze never left the alter, as he half-listened to the sermon, though he was very aware of his wringing his hands occasionally to keep them from trembling. 

"I'm so tired," one of the boys moaned. "And this is so boring..." That was true. The sermons were always boring, and lagging. And repetitive. The same lessons were being taught about not defying God, and letting Her into the hearts of the people. Billy felt his own eyes growing heavy as he listened longer, but he fought to keep his gazed fixated on the man preaching before them. 

Billy wanted to go home and sleep in his own bed. Being away from his home for the past few months had been torturous. Yes, there was almost nothing left there for him now, but what if... What if his father had come home and was waiting for him? Or worse yet, had left again? Billy's face stiffened as the sermon continued. The priest speaking at the alter spoke in waves of calm and fury, as if the very words coming from his mouth were from God Herself, yet at the same time, none of it made sense. It sounded so beautiful. 

*****

  
He never slept in that bed. Though he would make it up every morning, like he was told, he couldn't recall a night that he actually slept in _that_ bed. Billy leaned over and smoothed the edges. Already smooth, but they could stand to be smoother. Yes, they could. His thin hands shook nervously. 

No, it still wasn't right. He completely pulled off all of the sheets and blankets that he had just carefully place on there, was it three times today? He always did it multiply times, to make sure it was right. Usually, the only thing that stopped him from making his bed endlessly was the fear of being late to bible study. He hated the looks of disapproval that he received from the teachers. Scolding, shameful glowers from as they taught. Today, however, he kept making the bed right through the ringing of the school bells. 

"Billy, you're going to be late!" another boy called as he ran out the room. "Billy!" The boy shrugged as the grey-haired boy continued silently to fold and unfold each blanket carefully, then as he proceed to rip off the sheets again furiously. The other boy shrugged and ran out the door to meet the other little priests. 

It was nearly an hour before he noticed that he was alone. He torn the sheets off one last time before finally stopping from fatigue. He stared apathetically at the naked bed and dropped his knees. His hands were still trembling; they did that often when he was alone. Around others, he could find strength to appear as if he wanted to be there. But he hated it. 

He wanted to cry, but couldn't bring himself to. Crying was something he hadn't been able to do in over a year. He felt his chest tighten up and his breathing become painfully shallow. A lump formed in his throat, and he as he tried to swallow it, it only became more difficult to breathe. Still, no tears. 

Billy placed his hands on his lap and stared down at them. They looked like his mother's hands. His eyes narrowed as that thought drifted into his mind. It wasn't fair; he wanted his own hands or even his father's strong hands. But there they were, dainty weak, incapable of even performing a simple task like making a bed. 

He heard the bedroom door creak open and those heavy solid footsteps on the wooded floor. He knew the sounds of those feet like he did his own heartbeat. He could even believe that those footsteps _were_ his heart. He closed his eyes. This isn't what he wanted. 

"Billy?" The boy kept his head down, refusing to look up at the source of the fatherly voice that spoken to him. Then came the tears, refreshingly obscene at the time. The footsteps came closer. 

"Billy?" the voice repeated, "Are you okay? Do you need to see the nurse?" Billy shook his head, still keeping his face away from the man. Bishop Stone knelt in front of him; he gently lifted the boy's chin with his forefinger and thumb; the boy still had his eyes closed and twitched nervously under the older man's touch. 

Billy stuttered as he slowly opened his eyes, "I...I couldn't make up my bed today." 

"That's okay, I'll help you make it." 

"I don't want you to." Billy glanced down at his hands again; by now, Stone was holding them. 

He hated his mother's hands. 

*****

  
It was evening again, and the autumn sun had begun setting behind the reddening hills. He watched the window in that little bedroom as if it was for the last time, as he did every night. 

He lay down on the bed after removing his clothes, not bothering to neatly fold them as he usually did. At least he was still alone. 

But, he hated the waiting. That made night all that much worse. The little boy sat up on his bed, staring at the door, his quiet eyes. His hands, however, were twitching. To lessen that, he reached over and grabbed a pillow, clutching it tightly to his body. 

Never at night did they do that, but today had been different. 


End file.
